Sunday, April 12, 2009
What a Beautiful Game
I don't get out much. My normal day usually involves watching countless re-runs of "SportsCenter," playing online solitaire, and reciting the lyrics of the South Park theme song. My daily agenda consists of three words; eat, sleep, and repeat. So when a few of my new buddies called me up to play a fun round of golf yesterday, I said, "Hell, why not?"
What my friends didn't know, and would soon find out, is that I am one competitive son of a gun. I don’t care if we are playing poker, or having a thumb war; I refuse to lose and a temper tantrum would be thrown if necessary.
I haven't played golf all year, so I gingerly made my way into my attic in an attempt to retrieve my clubs. After shuffling through old magazines, schoolwork, and pictures of my middle school girlfriend (what did I see in her anyway?), I finally came across my best friends for the day, my golf clubs.
As I got into the car, my mouth got the better of me. I started trash-talking to my three opponents telling them how they didn't stand a chance at unseating me from my thrown. I even claimed I was the second coming of Tiger Woods and that Phil Mickelson was my half cousin. Thankfully, I was hungry, because I would be eating those words later that afternoon.
It was a great day to golf. Not too hot, not too cool. The grass was freshly cut and the smell of victory was in the air. The club was relatively crowded and we were forced to wait for others to finish on the first hole.
The group in front of us was four men probably in their 60s. They chose to have caddies rather than to take a cart, which was unfortunate for us because let's just say they were the kind of guys that would take two hours to watch 60 minutes. After waiting for the group to finish the first hole, a time-span in which I possibly could have memorized half the dictionary, it was finally time to get this show on the road.
The first hole was a short, 150-yard par 3. The green was small, with sand traps on both sides that seemed to be taunting me as I went into my backswing. I teed the ball up and just as fast as I swung at it, it went sailing directly into the trees. Thank God for first hole mulligans. My second try at it wasn't much better, but at least this time it was in play. Into the sand trap I was, and my round was off to a bad start. I saved bogey on the par three, but I was unsatisfied and determined to show my true colors on the hole number two.
On the second tee, I pulled out my shiny driver that had been in my house for almost four years, but looked brand new. I put a good swing on the ball and sent a low screamer around 250 yards to the center of the fairway. A cocky smile appeared on my face as I got back into the cart. The unnecessary smirk may have proven to be my downfall. Less than 100 yards away from the pin on this short par four, I completely sliced the ball way right of the green on my second shot. In fact, I was on the next hole's fairway. Damn practice balls. After muttering a few expletives and kicking the ground several times, I made my way back into the cart, speechless.
Hole by hole, I kept losing strokes to my rivals, and suddenly, I was the victim of the trash talking. "You were right, Bobby, Phil Mickelson is your half-cousin, and all he taught you was how to choke!" Now I was getting really pissed.
What started out as a phone call asking if I wanted to play a friendly round of golf, has turned into an all-out war.
On hole 12, my anger reached an all-time high. My tee shot took a bad hop and sat directly in the thick grass on a terrible lie. I took out my black sharpie and wrote "Hillary Clinton" on the ball for obvious motivational reasons. My 7 iron was the club of choice and when club met ball, the head of my 7 iron snapped completely off, and traveled 20 yards farther than my ball itself. As my friends laughed in enjoyment, I threw the rest of my club like a Frisbee into the water to my left.
Already mathematically out on the 18th green, I sunk a 20-foot par putt, my first par of the day. Talk about too little, too late as this finish to an otherwise awful round was more pointless than the Spice Girls' reunion. We drove our cart back and packed up our bags. My friends made their closing remarks and as I sat down in the car, shaking my head in defeat, I could only say one thing.
"So, are you guys up for another round tomorrow?"
Ahh, golf ... what a beautiful game.